


Soldier (Keep On Marching On)

by ThoseWhoFavorFire



Series: Simply Calling Out Sins (Don't Bring You Closer to God) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angels and Demons AU, Archangel!Steve, Gen, I have no regrets, Oneshot, take this away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseWhoFavorFire/pseuds/ThoseWhoFavorFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle..."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Steve is the Archangel Michael: Prince of the Heavenly Host, Warrior Angel of Heaven. He decided to stay on earth, protecting its people as Captain America. Sometimes, he still does his other job too, his job of answering the prayers of those in need of some divine intervention.</p><p>This is a one shot in the Simply Calling Out Sins universe. You don't need to read the first piece in the series to understand it, it also doesn't mention the Matt Murdock/Steve Rogers ship that exists in this universe.</p><p>Title inspiration: Soldier by Fleurie</p><p>  <em>"Head in the dust, feet in the fire/ Labor on that midnight wire/ Listening for that angel choir/ You got nowhere to run/ You wanna take a drink of that promise land/ You gotta wipe the dirt off of your hands/ Careful son, you got dreamer's plans/ But it gets hard to stand."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier (Keep On Marching On)

**Author's Note:**

> HEY READ ME BEFORE YOU READ THIS FIC: There are some heavy themes here including: child abuse, suicidal thoughts, protests, and war. I tried to give a spectrum of the problems humanity deals with and Steve helping people get through things and rise above them. Overall, it's very positive, but I did want to give everyone the warning before they dove in.
> 
> Now then, here you go, finally another piece in this universe. I'm sorry it lacks Steve/Matt, but I'm promise that's coming in the next update (hopefully sometime this weekend while I'm still off?)  
> Anyway, this is the prayer to St Michael, broken down into ficlets of Steve answering people's prayers and interceding. Although it didn't fit into the core fic pieces, I did want to address how angelic intercession works in this universe.  
> A big thank you as always to my beta Gunmetal_Crown.

_St. Michael the Archangel,_

Steve had been pleasantly surprised when Matthew introduced him to the owner of Fogwell’s Gym. After a few weeks of working out there, the owner decided to set Steve up with a key to the place as well. After all, who could possibly be more trustworthy than Captain America? Steve preferred coming to Fogwell’s at night, after everyone had left. He had trouble sleeping some nights and found hitting the heavy bag was better than sitting in his apartment and brooding about being unable to sleep (or spending countless hours on the Internet).

It was halfway through his work out when he felt it, the familiar tug in his chest. He closed his eyes, chasing the sensation. He found himself pulled there, opening his eyes to a different room. It was dark and it took Steve a second to adjust to the surroundings. Looking around, he didn’t immediately see anyone at eye level.

Then his hearing caught up with him and he heard the yelling. He fell easily into a battle stance as he heard a crash from down the stairs and a man’s voice.

Before he could rush down the stairs, he saw who had called to him out of the corner of his eye. There was a little girl, someone who couldn’t be older than eight. His defenses dropped, moving over to kneel next to her. He tuned out the yelling, realizing that she was muttering the prayer under her breath as she cried.

Reaching out, Steve touched her forehead. He willed her to be brave, to find the courage to move from the spot where she was frozen. She grabbed the stuffed animal sitting on her bed, crawling underneath the bed where she couldn’t be found if anyone came in.

He closed his eyes, reappearing downstairs to find the room in utter chaos. The woman, who Steve assumed was the mother, was curled up in the corner. There was a man and he was yelling, throwing things around the room. Steve briefly wished it was back in the days where he could just smite people and no one would question it. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and the man immediately passed out in a drunken heap.

The police got an anonymous call.

 

_Defend us in battle._

The next time Steve felt the pull, it was in the middle of the night as he was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. He had been up late, doing some research on current events on the Internet while he was laying around in bed.

Closing his eyes, he followed the tug in his chest. When he opened his eyes, he had to hold his hand up to shield his sensitive eyes from the sun. There was only sun and sand as far as the eye could see. It was familiar, somewhere that Steve had found himself very often in recent months. He heard gunfire and ducked behind a service vehicle.

That’s when he saw them, two soldiers across the way. Steve went to the one praying, bending down to see the man shedding tears over his fallen friend. He touched the forehead of the fallen soldier. Steve could feel the person’s life fading, coming to an end. In that moment Steve could see it all, the soldier’s life and even the most recent few minutes. He was a hero. He saved his friend, this soldier (and apparently the love of his life). Steve sent up a prayer to his brother Azrael, asking the Angel of Death to personally reap this man’s soul. That was reserved for only special cases.

Steve turned to the soldier next to him, the one who was paralyzed with grief and fear. The one who was praying to Michael the Archangel. Leaning forward, Steve touched the man’s cheek and watched as the man’s eyes dried and became steely with determination.

Standing back, Steve watched as the man saved his squad. Standing back, Steve watched as the man carried the fallen soldier back to base. Standing back, Steve watched as the man became a hero in his own right.

Blinking, Steve found himself back in his own apartment. That man would survive this day, perhaps he would even survive this war.

 

_Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil._

It was a Friday night in New York City, a night when most people would be out and partying. Instead, Steve was sitting in his favorite armchair and finishing up a mission report. It was a successful mission, so writing the report wasn’t that much of a drudgery.

He felt the pull, one that felt like it was fairly nearby. When Steve opened his eyes, he was still surrounded by the constant hustle and bustle of New York City. Instead of being in his relatively quiet apartment, he was enveloped by a pulsing crowd and the beating of heavy bass. Steve looked around, feeling the pull towards the bar and weaving his way through a crowd. There was a woman there, looking frightened but determined. She was trying to leave but there was a man holding her wrist.

Steve walked over, hearing the echo of her unspoken prayer echoing through her mind and his. He pushed through the crowd, still unseen and unnoticed, more aggressively. He reached out, grabbing the man’s wrist and pulling it off. The man let go of the woman in surprise. Before he could move again, Steve grabbed his shoulder and the man fled to the bathroom. Sure, a sword or shield might get the job done, but giving someone sudden alcohol poisoning did the job too.

Turning back to the woman who looked ready to cry from relief, Steve glanced at the drink that the woman left abandoned on the bar. He dipped a finger in, his face crinkling in disgust as he tasted the roofie in it. Steve watched the woman waver on her feet and he glanced around. He saw a woman a little further down the bar looking on in concern and she seemed basically sober.

Walking over, Steve patted this sober woman on the shoulder and she pulled out her cell phone. She walked over to the younger woman, who was starting to look quite sick.

“I’m Charlene, dear. You don’t look so good. Are you feeling okay?”

The woman shook her head, leaning gratefully on Charlene, “N-no. I’m feeling really sick. I think that guy put something in my drink.”

“What’s your name?”

“Alice.”

“Okay Alice, I’m going to call 911 and we’re going to get you to the hospital.” She turned to the bar and called to the bartender, “Denise, babe, you back there?”

A short, stern looking woman in a biker jacket popped her head out from the back room, “What’s up, love? Something wrong?”

“Can you go lock the bathroom door? There’s an asshole in there who tried to roofie this girl.”

Denise scowled, crackling her knuckles. As she moved towards the bathroom, Steve could hear her muttering under her breath, “Fuck with someone in _my_ club? I don’t think so, jackass.”

Steve didn’t leave until Alice had made it all the way to the hospital and the guy had been arrested. He was happy to see when he checked in the next day that Charlene and Denise had stayed with Alice until she was released from the hospital. He was even more pleased when he checked in a year later and found out that Alice was the maid of honor at Charlene and Denise’s wedding. Some stories do have a happy ending, he supposed.

 

_May God rebuke him we humbly pray,_

When Steve heard the sounds of shouting, the air suddenly filling with tear gas, he assumed he was in another war zone.

Technically? He was wrong. Actually? He was right.

Protestors filled the streets, being beaten back by militarized police. As he looked around, Steve realized with dismay that this was America. This was happening in his country.

There was a young woman kneeling on the ground next to a younger man. He seemed to be having trouble breathing and she was scrambling for what appeared to be an inhaler that had skittered out of reach. Oh. This kid had asthma.

Some of the prepared ones have scarves and bandanas, but many aren’t that fortunate. For a moment, it’s working. The protesters are angry, rightfully so. They are also afraid, afraid of the men with rubber bullets and tear gas driving them away. Afraid of those same men who continue to abuse their power and kill the innocent without answering for it.

So it only works for a moment.

For even though Steve was called there in a prayer, he isn’t needed this time. The kid with the asthma is being carried off to safety by another protester. The protesters are rallying, they are regrouping. They are going to be heard, come hell or high water.

So Steve stays with them through the night, occasionally lending them a small hand when he can go unnoticed. He stays and hopes, hopes that they might make progress, might start something.

It won’t happen overnight, but it will happen.

 

_And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Hosts,_

It was dark and Steve could understand why the woman would be afraid.

She swayed, walking down the back alleys of the city to get back to her home. She was completely alone, completely alone in an area where eyes followed and shadows lurked.

Except, suddenly, she wasn’t alone. Steve was there as she mumbled her drunken prayer under her breath. He lent her strength, to stand on her own without swaying so much. He lent her clarity, the ability to remember the way home was a left turn and not a right turn. He lent her invisibility, shielding her from the prying eyes of those who might do harm.

Sometimes being the warrior angel of heaven meant charging headfirst into battle. Other times it meant making sure that someone who needs a small hand gets it. All in the name of protection and no act greater in his mind than any other.

 

_By the Power of God,_

Steve had never liked bullies. He didn’t like bullies when he was Steve Rogers during World War One and he certainly didn’t like them now. Since the beginning of time he had considered himself against bullies, whether they were agents of Hell, powerful humans or assholes in back alleyways picking on the little guy.

He considered home invasions to be particularly challenging. Here he was, standing in some stranger’s home as the poor couple who lives there were held at gunpoint. On one hand, he could call the cops and hope they got there in time. Of course, there was the inherent risk of the couple getting more injured than they already were.

The way that Steve saw it, he only had one option, which meant a little more obvious interference than he usually went for. He walked over as time resumed around him, grabbing the man by the shoulder and overwhelming his mind. The man fell unconscious and the couple stood there frozen for a second.

Steve turned to the couple, gently placing his hand on each of their heads and willing them to be strong. They jumped to action, the one dragging the assailant into the bathroom and locking the door as the other called 911.

Once he was satisfied that the police would keep the couple safe, Steve moved on.

Steve didn’t like bullies, but at least he had the ability to stop them.

 

_Thrust into hell Satan,_

Steve found himself on the ledge of a building with a great view of the city. He was sitting with his feet swung over the ledge, the icy breeze simultaneously biting and refreshing. Next to him was a young man, high school age. He was sitting there, writing in a notebook.

Glancing over his shoulder, Steve saw a lot of messily crossed out text. He frowned, seeing a repeating pattern. It was a goodbye note…a suicide note.

Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he watched as the boy blinked back tears and scooted further from the edge. He took another look at the page tearing it out and crumpling it up. His pen hovered over the next clean page.

He started with “100 Reasons Life is Worth Living” scrawled in messy handwriting on the top line of the page. Steve sat there and waited, waited as the boy stared at the words on the page and the vacant #1 spot before he started writing.

  1. _My Parents_



It was slow going at first, Steve watching as the boy searched for answers.

  1. _Pizza_
  2. _My dog, Alexander._
  3. _I don’t want to miss the next superhero movie release._
  4. _Sunrises_
  5. _The snort my best friend makes when she laughs._



Sooner or later, they started coming to him faster, filling up page after page.

  1. _Getting to reread Harry Potter for the millionth time._
  2. _Going to my first NYC pride parade._
  3. _Getting to be disappointed in more book-turned-movies._



By the time he reached 100, his pen was running out of ink and the sun was peaking over the horizon. The boy stood up, tearing the page out of his notebook so that he could hang it up in his bedroom. He watched the sunrise with what was almost a relieved smile, heading back to his apartment to finally sleep.

One day at a time, one more sunrise. Every day a little better.

Once the boy was safely in bed, Steve returned to his own to get some sleep before he had to go to Avengers tower and see what mission awaited him there.

 

_And all the evil spirits,_

Demonic possessions were tricky business. It was extremely rare for Steve to get called to the location of one these days. Sure, in the old days you would have people praying to him about demonic possession all the time. Of course, there was only an actual demon problem half the time people prayed to him for that purpose. People were very paranoid in the Middle Ages.

This time though, it was a bit of a surprise. To be hanging out with Natasha one second and then to be half way across the country facing an actual demonic problem was a little jarring. As he entered the room, time slowed down to a near stop as the demon spun around in fear.

There was a person in the corner, cowering in fear. That appeared to be the person who called him here. He frowned at the demon in disappointment.

“Demonic possession? Really?”

The demon shrugged, wincing away from the divine aura surrounding Steve “Hey, I’ve got a chaos quota to meet. Just trying to do my job here.”

“I thought Hell had finally decided to be a little subtler about this sort of thing.”

Before the demon could respond, Steve held out a hand. His aura stretched out, enveloping the demon as Steve voice echoed around them, “Te exorcio, rede ad Infierno.”

Time resumed as the human the demon had possessed crumbled to the ground. Steve had done this enough times to know the human would be fine, except perhaps for waking up with a wicked headache and probably some bumps and bruising from the reckless demon moving about.

He blinked back to himself and saw Natasha was watching him with amusement. She laughed, “And the archangel returns. You know, it’s really strange to watch you wander away like that, even if your back moments later.”

Steve picked up his drink, taking a large sip. “Have I mentioned that I _really_ appreciate the fact that you are strong enough to have your own manifestation on earth? We’d have a real issue if you were a body snatcher.”

She shook her head, swirling her drink around in the glass. “Believe me, I appreciate it as well.”

 

_Who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls._

Steve never wanted people to ever have the need to pray to him, though he was always happy when he could help people. It was worse when someone needed to pray to him more than once. He hated to see any person suffer, nonetheless someone suffer continually.

Watching a child continually suffer is even worse.

Sometimes calling the police doesn’t help. Sometimes the abuser is friends with a cop. Sometimes the child is too young and too scared to ask for help.

When Steve opened his eyes, he was in the room he had first seen a few weeks before. The prayer was being muttered from under a blanket. The eight-year-old girl with golden blonde hair was sitting next to her bed, clutching a stuffed animal. Hesitating for a moment, Steve frowned deeply. Clearly, the police investigation hadn’t turned anything up. There was only one thing that Steve knew he could do to help at this point.

“Be not afraid,” Steve said as he appeared in a flash of white light that filled the room. “I am the angel Michael and I have heard your prayer. Come out, child. Let me help you.”

There was a sniffle from under the blanket, a moment before the little girl crawled out from underneath it. She blinked in surprise, her eyes going wide at the sight of Steve with his angel wings unfurled. He glowed faintly, even as he went down on one knee to see if she was okay.

Unlike last time, when the girl was mostly unharmed, she had bruises peppering the skin that wasn’t covered by the sleeves on her nightgown. She cradled her ribecage, flinching every time she moved. Though Steve wasn’t a healer, he had seen enough injuries in his long life to recognize broken ribs. If he had to guess, he would say she had hit her head as well.  

“What is your name?”

“Deborah,” she sniffled, clinging to her T-Rex stuffed animal.

“I know what has happened to you, Deborah. Did you tell the police?”

Deborah shook her head.

“Would you speak to someone if I called them now? We need to get you help.”

“I don’t know…” Deborah said, looking wary.

Steve held out a phone from the house to Deborah, the number already pulled up for her case officer. “It’s okay, you can do this. If you let these people help you, he can’t hurt you anymore. Just tell them your name, your age, your address and that your parents won’t take you to the hospital. Tell them you need an ambulance.”

Deborah nodded, taking the phone and pressing the send button. The 911 operator picked up and the young girl looked up at Steve for confirmation. When he gave the nod, she began speaking. It was clear it was getting difficult for her to talk. She managed to give the information needed, finishing with a weak, “I’m eight and my parents won’t take me to the hospital.”

Steve helped the girl get back over to her bed. He made sure the door was locked so that her father couldn’t get in even if he tried.

The next half hour went by in a blur. First, the ambulance showed up. The EMTs heard the shouting and had to call the police in. With the EMTs there, the police were forced to enter the premises and break up the fight. Before he knew it, the door to the bedroom was being broken down and the EMTs were rushing in. He heard phrases like “severe concussion”, “broken ribs” and “possible internal damage” being thrown around and Steve knew he was right in getting help.

Steve stayed with Deborah through it all, into the ambulance and to the nearest Trauma 1 hospital. He let her see him throughout, despite remaining cloaked to the other humans. Deborah was rambling about angels and wings, but the EMTs seemed to chalk it up to her age and the trauma she had undergone.

With the EMTs involved, the state authorities were contacted over the local authorities. Time passed in a blur, and Steve was able to learn that Deborah’s aunt, her mother’s sister, planned to take her in. Deborah was safe, she was going to be okay. Steve couldn’t remember the last time that he felt such relief.

As she laid in her hospital bed with her aunt beside her, Deborah briefly woke up and looked over to Steve as he moved to leave and she whispered one word with a small smile.

_“Amen.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone has their problems, everyone is dealing with stuff. I just wanted to give a shout out to anyone dealing with these or any other problems in their life. You are strong, you are amazing. Keep on marching on.  
> Hope you guys enjoyed, please let me know what you think!
> 
> Latin Translation: "I exorcise you, return to Hell." (Thank you two years of Latin class and the roommate who retained it all)  
> "Soldier keep on marching on/ Head down till the work is done/ Waiting on that morning sun/ Soldier keep on marching on."  
> Title and inspiration taken from Soldier by Fleurie which is an AMAZING song that gives me many many Archangel!Steve feels.  
> Next part of the series: Gospel (for the Fallen Ones)  
> Finally some Steve/Matt shippiness.


End file.
